


Abiit Nemine Salutado

by weirdarchivist



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: (the abuse stuff isnt related to the listed pairing btw), Angst, Betrayal, Dehumanization, Heartbreak, M/M, Ouchie ow ouch this is depressing, Slavery, There is no smut in this sorry, abuse mention, cringe and fail latin, sex mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29320917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdarchivist/pseuds/weirdarchivist
Summary: He left without saying farewell.
Relationships: Male Courier/Arcade Gannon
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	Abiit Nemine Salutado

Arcade had been told time and time again that his idealism would get him killed, even by Followers' standards. He often argued that helping save lives was worth the risk of one, then occasionally he tapered it off with a joke at his own expense, all in hopes of lightening the mood. This had the opposite effect, usually. As it turns out, when someone is "concerned about you", you aren't supposed to joke about your own disposability to an ethical cause by choice. He supposed that's why they allocated him to research, with how obtuse he could be about other people's emotions. He was stubborn and blunt, a very unpalatable combination for helping Freesiders looking to sober up, children dragging their bullet-ridden parents to where they'd heard about helpers, abuse victims seeking asylum, or general collateral of the distinct yet equally imperialistic Legion or NCR; two sides of the same coin, as far as Arcade was concerned. 

Seeing every single problem with New Vegas, hell-- the entire damn Mojave, and not being able to do a single thing to actually fix them ate at Arcade slowly. If anyone ever had a real, immediate problem, he would happily put aside research to help. Otherwise, it was best that he was squirreled away, not having to see just how badly systemic structures were failing Freeside (and beyond) nigh constantly. At least in researching for new medicinal compounds, he could pretend that the work he was doing would actually make a difference, rather than mitigate the symptoms of a more complex (and frankly terminal) issue. He just had to ignore the fact that this was simply a more impersonal commitment to doing nothing helpful for humankind, and sometimes he could sleep soundly at night with that knowledge. As for the other nights, working late suited Arcade just fine. 

The Courier looked like trouble from the start, but trouble that brought radical change. Trouble with a handsome smile. Arcade was ashamed to admit that was his Achilles heel, of all things. Just based on the way he looked and spoke, Arcade was sure that whatever the Courier would bring him into would be more impactful than mixing herbs together in a tent and hoping for a miracle. The Courier at least agreed not to help Caesar's Legion, an admittedly low bar to set, but it wasn't like Arcade would just stand around idly if the guy started using innocent people for target practice. 

Trust wasn't in Arcade's vocabulary. For good reason. The last thing he needed was people finding out about his connections to the Enclave, no matter how tenuous, and get a bullet in his head-- and that was the best possible outcome if word got out. The Enclave had a lot of enemies, and Arcade planned to never find out what that would mean for him any more than he already had. That being said, coordination and a mutual understanding was imperative for Arcade and the Courier to keep each other alive in life-or-death situations; one simply doesn't wander the wastes without making sure their companions will have their back rather than stab it. Like it or not, it took trust to stay calm in a fight rather than worrying about dying from something avoidable like friendly fire. The pair learned about each others habits and did their best to share a plan of attack. Doing so opened the floodgates. What started as stepping in tandem for a skirmish-based tango soon also waltzed into more intimate aspects of their relationship. 

Courier Six, with his charming eyes, infuriating wit, and outright recklessness, struck sparks in Arcade. God, he had forgotten just how flammable he was. Nights where the Courier had too much to drink on The Strip and Arcade had to haul him into wherever they chose to stay at the time, he would cling to Arcade and whisper of all the horrors he'd seen, created, and how pointless it all was. Nobody had clean hands in the wasteland. If they did, it was only because they had other people around to dirty their own for them. Arcade couldn't hate this Courier, not for what he'd done. Not when he would playfully raise his hands up in surrender to the Freeside children aiming their toy guns his way, shoot a giant rat or five so they didn't have to go to bed hungry, or when he ushered two young lovers out of New Vegas so they could get away from the trouble they were in. These small moments of compassion made it easier to forget that shooting his way through problems seemed to be the Courier's modus operandi. Arcade had to admit, he had no qualms with the cure to New Vegas coming in the form of bullets, if it meant dealing with diseases like the Omertas, for instance.

The sex may have also clouded his judgement a bit. Spontaneous, passionate, and a much more preferable exploration of the human condition than the abundant alternatives surrounding them. Sometimes Arcade liked to limp for reasons aside from being nearly killed (again), and he was sure most people would agree with that sentiment. The Courier liked to pounce on him when they were alone, pressing him up against a vault wall, or the side of a rock overhang. If it was sturdy and upright, chances were that Arcade's back would be up against it at some point or another. Granted, Arcade had his fair share of ambushes, but the Courier definitely took the initiative more often than not. The Courier was hasty but not careless about making... whatever this was to him. Arcade wouldn't call it lovemaking. That would imply that it was more than two lonely, adrenaline-riddled fools clinging respectively to the only person not actively trying to kill them for miles. Never mind the heart flutters Arcade felt when stroking the Courier's hair until he was fast asleep, it was nothing. Surely.

However, if this was how he spent the rest of his nights on Earth, Arcade decided that wouldn't be so bad.

_Omnibus rebus bonis finis est. For all good things, there is an end._

The end began when Arcade, who had followed his Courier to unimaginable places, chose to continue doing so even as they set foot in Legion territory. Arcade was angry, he grabbed the Courier's arm to halt him and demanded to know exactly what the hell he thought he was accomplishing by indulging a tyrant's summon. Pitifully unarmed, if he might add, now that their weapons had been turned over. The Courier kept his voice low, even, assuring. He merely wanted to see what Caesar had planned. 

Arcade could tell him his plans, it was to put everyone who didn't serve him on a cross or in a bomb collar. Given everything they'd done, he wouldn't be surprised if Caesar simply wanted to witness the Courier's death himself-- the man was deranged, unpredictable, and very much wanted people like Arcade and Courier Six out of the picture. Here, he had the authority to actually make that happen. And _still_ , Arcade chose to follow. Chose to trust, and dip into the reservoir of hope he was used to only siphoning drops from, sure of nothing but the fact that he had his Courier, and that was all he needed.

Arcade waited tersely outside of Ceasar's tent, much to his objections when a guard ordered Courier Six to enter alone. He only relented when the Courier urged him to, but he still huffed and muttered something snide. He wasn't happy with it, but he was doing it. They made it this far, it would hopefully be worth it, or in the very least they would be dead faster than they could realize it wasn't. Although, given the popular execution method around here, that seemed highly unlikely. Arcade kept his arms crossed, glaring at the guards posted outside, who stared down at him like he was an abomination in turn. He made sure to turn his Followers patch towards them, just to rub it in. If nothing else, he would die being the smartass he lived as.

The Courier left the tent, and Arcade didn't spare him another moment before telling him, and anyone in earshot, just exactly what he thought about that fascist dictator behind the curtain. 

Even so, Arcade hated himself for how easily the Courier convinced him that doing favors for Caesar made them more favorable, hence giving them a better chance to kill him when the time was right. That wasn't even to mention the genuinely beneficial impact it would have for the Mojave in general. The tasks that the Courier had to fulfill on Caesar's behest conveniently involved taking out some of the biggest threats to an independent New Vegas. Arcade couldn't find it in him to put up any real fight for why the Boomers should be left to their own devices, much less an already wounded Brotherhood of Steel. Though in between these runs, going back to the Fort time and time again, it made Arcade's skin crawl to hear Legionaries bid them with, "Ave," and hear the Courier return the gesture with increasing ease. _When in Rome_ , Arcade would say to steel himself.

One night, on a return trip to The Fort, Arcade stroked his Courier's hair as they laid under the stars. The Courier looked worn down, tired in a way that rest never gets rid of. His voice, ragged but firm, cut through the distant chirp of irradiated crickets.

"Would you forgive me if I did something unforgivable?" He asked.

Arcade lifted a single brow, studying his Courier.

"Setting aside the definition of unforgivable for a moment, it depends."

"If I did it to protect something precious?"

"Are we talking precious to you, or to a cause? Because one is self-fulfilling and the other is arguably more ambiguous." Arcade couldn't read Six's expression, something that was happening more and more often these days.

"Goodnight, Arcade." Was what he gave as an answer.

"Goodnight, Courier."

* * *

"Abiit nemine salutato." Arcade had said this when slipping past the Old Mormon Fort's gate with Courier Six. 

_He left without bidding farewell._

The phrase itself was poignant, a goodbye in its own respect, one that was easiest to give anyhow. Whenever he was in mortal peril, something far more common after he met Courier Six, he found himself saying the phrase bitterly, cursing himself with it, even _for_ it. He never entered Caesar's Fort without saying it under his breath, hoping that it would tell the Courier just how much he hated this, that if anything happened it would be his fault. That wasn't necessarily true, though. Arcade chose to follow him, he could have left at any time and trudged back to his boring, pointless busy work in a safe zone that shrank with each passing day. No, the blame was truly turned inward, and he would never let either of them forget. He also wouldn't have it any other way.

Legion guards emerged from Caesar's tent not five minutes after the Courier had entered it. Arcade assumed that he was finally considered worthy enough to join the grownup table and discuss the best ways to commit mass genocide. _What an honor_. His suspicions seemed confirmed when one guard roughly grabbed his arm and began yanking him towards the tent. Arcade planted his feet into the ground, but it did little to help. The man was appointed as one of Caesar's guards for a reason, after all.

"In case you weren't aware, I can move from point A to point B without being dragged there, thanks." Arcade's tone dripped with venom that would put a cazadore to shame. He tried to wrench free, paying no mind to the way the guard's expression hardened with each useless jerk. He had mouthed off to Legionaries before and gotten away with it, meaning he didn't expect for a fist to lodge itself into his diaphragm. As he wheezed and searched for answers, the guard manhandling him spat with all the disgust in his being, "Silence, slave, or your blood will run to the bottom of this hill for your insolence."

Slave? What? Is that what they thought he was? 

Or is that what he was about to become?

As Arcade twitched and heaved for breath, the dread that was sloshing inside him all this time calcified into something very real, unignorable. What had the Courier done? Was he safe? Alive? As Arcade was hauled upright again and carried forward, he could see through one lens of his skewed glasses, enough to spot Courier Six leaving the tent. Arcade didn't have the air in him to call out beyond a hoarse utterance barely resembling language. He reached out for the Courier, fingers barely brushing against his Pip-Boy. He had to have seen the trouble Arcade was in, but he only looked forward in silence. That was the last time that Arcade saw his Courier, as he had finally been delivered unto Caesar.

Abiit nemine salutado.


End file.
